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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24996412">Hitsuzen</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellefire/pseuds/bellefire'>bellefire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alpha Peter, Alternate Reality, First Meetings, Japanese Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Magical stiles, One-Shot, Pre-Slash, Wishes, magical creatures Lydia and Erica, xxxHolic AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:49:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24996412</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellefire/pseuds/bellefire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles owns a legendary whish shop.  Peter is a wolf with a wish.  A little be careful what you wish for and a little you don’t always get what you want but sometimes you get what you need.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>194</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hitsuzen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Hitsuzen</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Contrary to being loomed over by its dull urban neighbors the modestly sized building stands out like a sore thumb, to Peter at least it does.  Other errant passersby’s on the busy city streets glance at him wide-eyed before scurrying off like rats, none of them look behind him at the unique structure standing proud and colorful among the drab slate greys of New York.  Perhaps disfiguring scars are more worthy of note over hauntingly whimsical architecture that he’d call a strange mix of Victorian and Edo era.  Maybe the public appreciated Varvatos shirts and well-fitted jeans, doubtful though.</p>
<p>The shop is indeed beautiful.  And warded to hell and back. </p>
<p>He pushes the tall intricate entrance gate open easily all the same, bristles at the magic covering the place not finding him an adequate threat for even the smallest amounts of resistance.  Peter armored himself in being a threat, not being perceived as one almost feels like…a dismissal.  He shakes off the feeling of being judged and looks to reason. Intention must play a part here.  His hand tightens around his suitcase handle; he is a customer after all.</p>
<p>Peter’s never been to the shop before but his contacts are impeccable, this is the right place.  His last resort.  Once in Morocco he almost made it before the shop moved from his perceptions, then again in a small town in the Hokkaido region of Japan.  Third time’s the charm.  The shop is hard to pin down and the type of power it would take to move it from place to place would humble any Alpha worth their salt.  He expects the shop owner to be a Japanese woman by the name of Noshiko, supposedly very beautiful if not a somewhat intense, there is chance he’ll get the other one.  The past few years some people have reported someone altogether different—a young man with the same magical abilities.  Peter doesn’t care which one is there as long as he gets what he wants.</p>
<p>Passing through the gate is like stepping into another world.  The sound of city life fades to a low murmur on the wind, the sky above seems a more vibrant blue, and Peter has the distinct sensation of being a guest in another’s territory.  Iridescent black butterflies flutter around the flower bushes lining the stone pathway that leads to the shop. Peter takes a deep breath scenting the fresh flowers, orange oil and the faintest whiff of sweet tobacco lingering in the air.   For a moment he doesn’t realize what’s missing, and then his hand shoots to his face.  The scars that twisted and marred his skin always hurt, a constant agony as they were still trying to slowly heal.  Now, the pain is so dulled that he can only feel them if he focuses on them.</p>
<p>He doesn’t get much time to reflect on how he feels about this.</p>
<p>The front door of the shop clicks open revealing two young women.  One blonde in leather pants and a red spaghetti strap, one red-head in a pretty little cream colored dress, both with their hair twisted artfully to the side in a twin style braid though their faces and statures couldn’t be any different.  The look in their eyes as they asses him are however much the same.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon.”  Peter starts, good manners are generally the best way to begin a business deal.  He can always switch to harsher tactics later if he needs to.  Either way had their charms depending upon the other side of the table. </p>
<p>“Afternoon, is it?”  The redhead cants her head looking to the girl by her side.</p>
<p>Blondie looks back and grins like there’s some grand joke Peter’s not aware of, “Guess so.”</p>
<p>They cast suspicious narrowed eyes at him, together they say, “You’re not the usual customer.”</p>
<p>Peter can admit to himself and only himself they are indeed a little creepy, “I hope not.  I strive to not be the usual anything.”</p>
<p>They eye him long enough for his temper to lick at the edges of his vision.  After a solid one whole uncomfortable minute the girls take a step away from each other and gesture at the open door.  Hardly inviting, though somewhat par for the course in the supernatural community and to be honest he’s had far colder receptions.  The magically gifted tended to be even more hostile than the most wary of werewolf packs.  Peter takes it in stride and saunters inside, smirking at the girls as he sidles past the narrow space they’ve so graciously left him.</p>
<p>“<em>Shoes</em>.”  The girls echo pointing to a small alcove situated to the left of the foyer where a pair of beaten up converse lowtops and two matching pairs of wooden geta sit.  Peter toes off his own shoes and feels strangely somewhat more vulnerable for it.</p>
<p>They lead him to an enormous painted silk-screen sliding door featuring animals and gods waging war under a yellow moon.  Around it is a wooden frame adorned with decidedly non-Japanese Elder Futhark runes.  The girls slide the screen open for him giving him the same untrusting look all the while.  Perhaps he did make them a little nervous, and that’s enough to bolster his confidence to face whatever comes next.</p>
<p>“Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”  A languid male voice says.  The voice comes from a young man, surprisingly young, sprawled across an ornate loveseat in the middle of vast room with gleaming floors and tastefully placed multicultural decor.  He’s holding a long kiseru pipe wafting meandering lines of smoke into the air.  The black kimono he wears is almost indecent in the way the boy wears it.  The kimono doesn’t seem like it was made with a man in mind as few kimono are but it still seems a size too big.  Some fabric slips off one pale shoulder as the boy leans forward.  He’s lovely to look at without a doubt, all glittering dark eyes and pretty mouth, his fair face framed by short but messy chestnut hair.  He’s lit aglow with mostly natural light coming through in soft beams from the massive arched windows on the other side of the room.  The ethereal effect is somewhat ruined when he breaks out into raucous laughter rocking upright on the loveseat and placing the pipe on a small table next to him, “Sorry, I’ve always wanted to say that to someone.”</p>
<p>The girls roll their eyes, fond and expectant of the antics at the same time.  Peter blinks.  For a moment he’s at a loss.  A real actual loss.  Who the hell is he dealing with?  Peter gathers himself, sets his shoulders then places his suitcase on the wooden floor casually like it’s not full of priceless artifacts from around the world.  He takes a few steps forward—straining for a whiff of the boy’s scent beneath all that smoke.</p>
<p>“I’m Peter Hale.”  He debates offering a hand deciding to incline his head instead.</p>
<p>The boy wiggles his fingers, “Yo.”</p>
<p>Peter blinks again.</p>
<p>The red head bustles over and swats the boy over the head with a fan she’s pulled off a wall maybe or from beneath her dress—the hell if Peter knows, “Ow!  Lydia!  Fine!  Jesus, you make me miss the oni sometimes you know that?  Anyway, yes, hello there Peter.  I’m Stiles.”</p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow, “Just ‘Stiles’?”  He’ll be honest, he’s been trying that out a lot lately, he was expecting more fanfare.  Something a bit more Oracle of Delphi not…Sabrina the teenaged witch, although this Stiles person would probable look wonderful in a short skirt.</p>
<p>Stiles grins, “Well, it’s not as prolific as ‘Peter Hale, Hale alpha, Yale Alumnae and tristate high school basketball champion’ but it does the job.  Besides, names have power you know.  You should be more careful with yours, Peter Hale.”</p>
<p>It’s not a threat, but its close enough to one that Peter’s baser instincts rise to the surface.  Peter’s eyes flash a deep burning red and inches a little closer.  He can catch the scent now, Stiles smells like the cold of winter.  Ice and long nights.</p>
<p>“Pretty eyes.”  Stiles says with a scoff so unimpressed it throws the werewolf just a bit, “Tell me why you’re here, Peter.”</p>
<p>“I would think that was obvious.  I have a wish.”</p>
<p>Lazily Stiles shakes his head, more pale skin gets revealed with the tiny motion, “No, you have a <em>grudge</em>.”</p>
<p>Yes, Peter had a grudge.  A grudge and a whole section of a cemetery baring his family’s name—none of them older than a decade.  He was the Hale Alpha now but what did that matter when the Hale Pack consisted of him, his flighty niece and his irrevocably traumatized nephew?  Any Hale allies they had were turned to ash along with his family.  No one wanted to risk the wrath of the hunters.  Cowards.  Once he was finished with those responsible for his family, those responsible for his scars, he knew where he would be turning his vengeance next.  They need not fear the hunters, the only thing any of them should be afraid of was him.  His wrath, and only<em> his</em> wrath.</p>
<p>Stiles quirks the side of his mouth, not a smile but not a smirk either, “Grudges are bad habits, Mr. Big Bad Wolf.  Round and round, hard to break once they get going.”  He picks up his pipe, puffs, then blows a perfect circle into the air before putting it back down.  The smoke ring widens and dissipates.</p>
<p>“Well, I am a creature of habit.  Furthermore I can pay you.”  Peter moves the suit case to Stiles’ feet. </p>
<p>The top clicks open of its own accord and the contents come tumbling out across the floor.  Stiles pokes at one—a delicate and allegedly haunted Faberge egg from Katherine the Great’s own collection, with a bare foot.  Again he shakes his head, “Nope.  None of those things are equal to what you want.”</p>
<p>A low snarls tears out of Peter’s throat, pretty thing or not Peter’s patience is almost already done with Stiles, “How do you know that when I haven’t even asked for anything yet?”</p>
<p>Surely, hunters’ lives could not be worth much.  To Peter, they were worth nothing at all, pests whose extermination is long overdue.</p>
<p>“You want revenge, against who doesn’t matter.” In a beat Stiles is in his face, another snarl forms and dies in Peter’s mouth as he stares into the dark eyes.  Darker now, impossibly so, “Vengeance is rooted deep in pain, chaos, strife, I can smell it on you.”</p>
<p> Stiles’ eyes aren’t simply dark, they’re black as a dreamless sleep.  He begins to circle Peter less a boy now and more a predator, “You have no value for yourself, Peter Hale.  Not really.  You would die to see your goal accomplished, you would like to avoid it but if that’s the cost of taking them down with you then you would gladly give it.  Money, these crow’s nest trinkets, they mean even less to you.  So why would I value what you offer?  Payment such as that.  I cannot accept.”</p>
<p>Rage fueled by an unquenched thirst for revenge wells.  Peter grabs Stiles and pushes him down into that damnable loveseat gripping the slighter wrists in a bruising grip, “Then what! You don’t want what I’ve brought you!  You don’t want anything I can give, what the hell am I supposed to do?”  Once more Peter is honest.  The thing about last resorts, is that no matter the position of strength Peter tries to maintain he’s still willing to do anything, give anything.</p>
<p>Stiles sighs apparently unconcerned about their positions, Peter can feel the puff of oddly cool air against his cheek, “It must be equal, Peter.  Wish and Payment.  There’s no haggling here, either you live with it.  Or don’t.”</p>
<p>The lack of a flat out refusal gives him a spark of hope, “Tell me.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want your little treasure horde, or your death.  I want your life.”  Stiles pulls easily free from Peter’s grip with surprising strength but rather than pushing him away he lays his palms on Peter’s chest, “There’s nothing you can give me other than your time and your effort.  Miniscule maybe to the millions you were ready to throw at my feet to some but to me those things are worth much more.  Enough for you to get your wish.”</p>
<p>“Fine.  Anything.”  Peter agrees too quickly.</p>
<p>“Then you agree,” Stiles leans up closer, he places cool finger tips ever so gently to the scarred side of Peter’s face, the werewolf barely manages to not flinch away, “shall I grant your wish?”</p>
<p>For some reason, the question sounds sad coming from the boy.</p>
<p>Formally Peter nods in the affirmative, “Yes, I agree.”</p>
<p>Something inside Peter’s chest cracks like an old joint and the feeling of dread takes root there.   The feeling twists around him, in him, through him into the floor of the shop.  Briefly it’s almost as if he’s anchored to this place, unable to move.  The sensation passes.  Mostly.</p>
<p>Finally Stiles pushes them both upright, he sways on the balls of his feet with a giddy childlike grin, “Awesome! Lydia, Erica, bring me the paperwork.”</p>
<p>Paperwork? </p>
<p>Peter is tired of being confused, and the emotional whiplash that he would have thought was on purpose.  But he thinks no, Stiles just may be Like That.  So what the hell, bring on the paperwork.</p>
<p>The girls, deadly silent throughout their exchange, round a corner into the probably numerous back rooms and come rushing out a different opening altogether almost as giddy at Stiles.  They’re carrying a large obviously ancient scroll, each girl at one end with careful hands. Stiles pulls the red cord around it and the scroll unravels to the floor.  Lines of elegant Japanese script cover every inch of the aged paper except at the bottom where in English the name Mieczyslaw Stilinski bleeds into a stylized black fox symbol.</p>
<p>“What is this?”</p>
<p>“A contract.  For employment.”</p>
<p>“What.”</p>
<p>“Well,<em> technically</em>,” Stiles says and the girls chorus the word in their equally amused tones, “you’ll just be a part-timer.  Man, we haven’t had one of those in ages.  Don’t worry though I’m sure you’ll do great.”</p>
<p>Peter stares down at the scroll and to his horror his name in his own handwriting starts to appear in the next available line.  Unlike the name above his, his ends in a moon.</p>
<p>“But I didn’t sign.”  He despises how out of sorts he sounds.  He’d been prepared for this but nothing really could have prepared him for Stiles.</p>
<p>“Oh, you already gave me your name though.  Don’t you remember?”  The boy’s smile is still…happy, nothing cruel or mocking there, just fact.  Maybe even something relieved there.</p>
<p>“What will be required of me?”  Peter begins thinking about all that ways one could get out of magical contracts.  They were tricky things, totally depended on the terms of the agreement.  Recklessly, Peter had given not just his life, but his time and effort.  He had fully consented to a fucking <em>job. </em></p>
<p>Stiles grins, like he knows what’s going through Peter’s mind, “I’ll have, mmmm, errands for you to run.  Things to…fetch.  We have a little trouble getting out and about these days.  You’ll come in three days a week.  You’ll have the time I’m sure.  Hours are nonnegotiable.”</p>
<p>“It seems nothing here is negotiable.”  Peter says bitterly.</p>
<p>Stiles cants his head, takes a puff from the pipe and blows the smoke out rather gracefully, “Nothing of worth ever is.”</p>
<p>The girls pick up the artifacts with the care of grocery store stock workers and hand them back to him inside the suitcase.  They still appear as if they’d prefer him at the bottom of a lake rather than here but they too seem a little brighter.  The two lace their fingers into each other’s blocking the view of the shopkeeper.</p>
<p>“See you tomorrow.” Calls Stiles from behind them, “Eight o’clock in the morning. Don’t be late.”</p>
<p>The girls lead him out and promptly slam that great big door behind him.  Dazed, Peter slowly wanders down the lovely path to the gate.  The feeling of being watched tugs on his senses.  He turns back and there sitting on the porch is a large black fox.  Its eyes burn silver and its mouth hangs open in a rictus smile.  He flashes his own red flash at the creature but it only chitters out a mocking laugh before disappearing in a whorl of inky black smoke. </p>
<p>Peter stands there for a long time, he can’t decide if he’s just made a mistake or not.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>end?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As it stands this really is just a one-shot window into an AU.  I would like to make a series because this fic has a lot of things to be explored and answered.  Sorry if it’s a bit incomprehensible if you’ve never read or watched xxxHolic.  If I get around to it I’d imagine the series would be short and a good blend of Teen Wolf canon and xxxHolic.</p>
<p>Also to confirm, yes, the kimono Stiles haphazardly wears belongs to Noshiko.  So does the pipe, and originally—the shop.  Ugh, I really wanna do a series.  But the wips I have posted already haunt me.  My wips bang pots and pans over my bed at night and curdle my cow’s milk.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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